Dear Diary,
So I haven't written to you since I was five. Maybe I was six, it's hard to recall.
But back then, did you know that I hated you, Diary? You and your stupid unicorns and bright, colorful rainbows and pictures of how the world would be if I could get you to listen to me.
To be honest, I was never very good at that, Diary.
I didn't have the words you wanted, or the sorts of emotions you covetted, or the life you could claim as another one of your products, your children, your lifelong lovers.
I never wanted you, Diary. Yet for a while, you managed to get to the worser, weaker parts of me. But for that you went and deceived me, Diary; led me to think you were reading, caring, listening, knowing, understanding. Made me believe you'd love me. Made me believe you'd have me.
But it didn't take too long before my contempt for you was stronger than your deceit, dear Diary. My hatred, anger, firey rage pitted against you was enough to burn you up in these grey eyes. To light you on fire - but not to take away your power to own all the secrets of my generation.
When I saw what you'd done to us, I wanted to repay you, Diary. Wanted to get you back - to get my retribution, my revenge. But I'd have to do with burning you and your dirty pages full of dirty lies that no one should write in letters, least of all, to you.
It's been years since I've seen those letters, Diary. Such pitiful cries of such a desperate, pathetic child. Still so ashamed I scribbled your name -- wrote all that sentimental bullshit to you. Told you how I loved you and him and the world, but felt frightened and cold and alone.
From them, you'd be sure to think I was hopelessly tragic, Diary.
But you'd be wrong. Wrong about me. Wrong about so many of us who mistakenly set our pens to you. Wrong about millions, every day, Diary.
Little lost ones who mistakenly write their love to you. Frantic, fearful ones who tragically write their suicides for you, knowing that you'll read them all. Frightened lonely ones writing on dead ones to you; praying all their prayer to you, Diary. As if you were some god who could bring them back. As if you were some diety we ought to be praying to.
So many, too many do: set up their alters, bow their pens, and write their penance to you, Diary.
Do you ever read them? Do you ever know? Do you even bother confessing how you're just a dead god, just a faint glow, just a pretentious image we've all created together - to make our souls feel better?
Did you ever warn us, Diary? Or did you think you didn't have to?
I was just wondering; I just wanted to ask.
Sincerely,
-------
-RK
But back then, did you know that I hated you, Diary? You and your stupid unicorns and bright, colorful rainbows and pictures of how the world would be if I could get you to listen to me.
To be honest, I was never very good at that, Diary.
I didn't have the words you wanted, or the sorts of emotions you covetted, or the life you could claim as another one of your products, your children, your lifelong lovers.
I never wanted you, Diary. Yet for a while, you managed to get to the worser, weaker parts of me. But for that you went and deceived me, Diary; led me to think you were reading, caring, listening, knowing, understanding. Made me believe you'd love me. Made me believe you'd have me.
But it didn't take too long before my contempt for you was stronger than your deceit, dear Diary. My hatred, anger, firey rage pitted against you was enough to burn you up in these grey eyes. To light you on fire - but not to take away your power to own all the secrets of my generation.
When I saw what you'd done to us, I wanted to repay you, Diary. Wanted to get you back - to get my retribution, my revenge. But I'd have to do with burning you and your dirty pages full of dirty lies that no one should write in letters, least of all, to you.
It's been years since I've seen those letters, Diary. Such pitiful cries of such a desperate, pathetic child. Still so ashamed I scribbled your name -- wrote all that sentimental bullshit to you. Told you how I loved you and him and the world, but felt frightened and cold and alone.
From them, you'd be sure to think I was hopelessly tragic, Diary.
But you'd be wrong. Wrong about me. Wrong about so many of us who mistakenly set our pens to you. Wrong about millions, every day, Diary.
Little lost ones who mistakenly write their love to you. Frantic, fearful ones who tragically write their suicides for you, knowing that you'll read them all. Frightened lonely ones writing on dead ones to you; praying all their prayer to you, Diary. As if you were some god who could bring them back. As if you were some diety we ought to be praying to.
So many, too many do: set up their alters, bow their pens, and write their penance to you, Diary.
Do you ever read them? Do you ever know? Do you even bother confessing how you're just a dead god, just a faint glow, just a pretentious image we've all created together - to make our souls feel better?
Did you ever warn us, Diary? Or did you think you didn't have to?
I was just wondering; I just wanted to ask.
Sincerely,
-------
-RK
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